Part 1

“Your imaginary boyfriend called. He said he’s stuck in traffic with your non‑existent career and your fictional apartment in Manhattan.”

My cousin Britney announced it to the entire McKinnon family reunion, holding up my phone like a trophy. That was the moment Governor James Rothwell walked through the backyard gate, his protective detail flanking him as he headed straight for me with the kind of smile that had won him a large share of the women’s vote across Illinois.

“Actually,” he said, loud enough for all forty‑seven of my relatives to hear, “I was delayed at the White House. The president wanted to discuss the education bill before I flew out to meet my girlfriend’s family.”

The potato salad literally fell out of Aunt Martha’s mouth. Uncle Ted dropped his beer, the bottle shattering on the concrete patio. And Britney—Brittany—stood frozen, still holding my phone, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish discovering air isn’t water.

“Though technically,” James continued, taking my hand and pressing a quick kiss to it, “we should probably tell them the whole truth, shouldn’t we, sweetheart?”

The whole truth. As if the truth wasn’t already impossible enough—that I, Haley McKinnon, failed actress turned high‑school drama teacher from Oak Park, was dating the youngest governor in Illinois history. The man business magazines called the future of American public life. The same man who’d been on a major magazine cover last month under the headline, The Bachelor Governor: Why Washington’s Most Eligible Man Stays Single.

“Not anymore, apparently.”

“Jamie,” I hissed, using the nickname only I was allowed to use. “What are you doing?”

But he was already working the crowd, that campaign‑trail charm on full display.

“Mrs. McKinnon, I’m so sorry we’re late,” he told my mother. “I promised Haley we’d be here by two, but the president can be persistent when he wants to discuss policy.”

My grandmother, who hadn’t moved from her lawn chair since arriving three hours ago, suddenly found her mobility.

“The president? The actual president?”

“Yes, ma’am. Though between you and me, your granddaughter is much better at negotiations. She once talked me out of cutting arts education funding by warning me I’d be on the couch. Very effective political strategy.”

“You two live together?” my mother squeaked.

This was spiraling fast. Before I could implement damage control, James’s lead protective agent, Davidson, stepped forward.

“Governor, we need to sweep the perimeter. Standard protocol for unscheduled stops.”

“Of course,” James said smoothly. “Though I should mention this is the McKinnon family reunion. They’re about as dangerous as a basket of puppies. Well, except for Haley when she hasn’t had her coffee.”

“That’s true,” I muttered, still processing the fact that my secret boyfriend of eight months had just blown our cover in front of my entire extended family—the same family who’d spent the last three years making helpful suggestions about my love life, career choices, and biological clock.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Britney finally found her voice. “You’re saying you’re actually dating Governor Rothwell? The same Governor Rothwell who’s getting honored next month for his arts advocacy? The one who speaks five languages and graduated Harvard at twenty?”

“Six languages, actually,” James corrected, modestly. “I picked up Mandarin during trade talks with Beijing.” He squeezed my hand. “Haley’s been helping me with my Spanish. She’s an excellent teacher.”

“I teach high‑school drama,” I said flatly. “Not Spanish.”

“You teach everything,” he countered. “Confidence, creativity, courage. Do you know she directed a production of Hamilton with a budget of three hundred dollars and somehow made it magical? I’ve seen shows with less heart.”

“You came to my school play three times, sat in the back, bought a very bad video from the AV club.”

He grinned. “Your principal almost had me escorted out the third time. Apparently, governors aren’t supposed to lurk in high‑school auditoriums.”

“Oh my gosh,” my sister Emma whispered. “This is real. This is actually real.”

“As real as the tax reform I’m pushing next month,” James said. “Though significantly more enjoyable than fiscal policy discussions.”

My uncle Robert—the family’s self‑appointed patriarch since Grandpa passed—stepped forward.

“Now hold on just a minute. How do we know you’re really dating our Haley? No offense, sweetheart, but you’re a high‑school teacher from Oak Park. He’s… well, he’s him.”

The condescension made my jaw clench. The same uncle who’d spent last Christmas explaining why I was too picky and should be realistic about my options was now implying I wasn’t good enough for someone who actually wanted me.

James went very still. It was the same stillness he deployed in debates right before he dismantled an argument.

“I’m sorry you’re questioning whether I’m good enough for Haley.”

“That’s not what—” Aunt Patricia started.

“Because let me be clear,” James continued, his voice carrying the authority that comes with running the fifth‑largest state in America. “Haley McKinnon is the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. She turns teenagers who hate Shakespeare into kids who quote Hamlet for fun. She spent spring break building sets instead of going to Cabo because the kids deserved something special. She volunteers at the literacy center every Saturday, teaching adults to read without making them feel small. So, no, sir. The question isn’t whether she’s good enough for me. The question is whether I’m worthy of her.”

The backyard went quiet except for the distant hum of a lawn mower.

“Also,” Davidson added helpfully, “she’s the only person who’s ever beaten the governor at Scrabble six times.”

“Seven,” I corrected automatically. “That last game where he claimed Qi isn’t a real word counts.”

“It is a real word,” James protested, the tension breaking as he turned to my family with mock exasperation. “It’s a Chinese concept of life force. Perfectly legitimate game word. She’s ruthless, your Haley. Beautiful, brilliant, and ruthless.”

“How did you even meet?” Emma asked, phone out and undoubtedly texting everyone she’d ever known. “I mean, governors don’t usually hang out in high‑school drama departments.”

James and I exchanged glances. The real story was complicated— a charity gala where I’d been working as a cater‑waiter to make extra money, a spilled tray of champagne, and him gallantly helping me clean up while making me laugh so hard I forgot to be mortified. We’d talked for two hours in that kitchen, covered in champagne and chocolate sauce. By the end of it, I’d forgotten he was Governor Rothwell and just thought of him as Jamie, the guy who could quote obscure musicals and had opinions about iambic pentameter.

“She threw wine on me,” James said simply. “At the Chicago Arts benefit. Completely destroyed a very expensive tuxedo.”

“It was champagne,” I corrected. “And it was an accident. You were holding the tray like a weapon.”

“I’ve seen less aggressive defensive lines in the NFL.”

“You walked backward into me. I was trying to escape the mayor’s wife—she was describing her Maltipoo’s digestive issues in vivid detail.”

He shuddered. “Anyway, Haley apologized by quoting Merchant of Venice: ‘The quality of mercy is not strained.’ And I knew I was done. Completely, utterly done. Took me three weeks to track her down.”

“You had your chief of staff call every catering company in Chicago,” I reminded him.

“I had to find you. You’d vanished like Cinderella. If Cinderella quoted Shakespeare and had very strong opinions about Stephen Sondheim.”

“Everyone should have strong opinions about Stephen Sondheim,” I muttered.

“See?” He turned to my family. “Perfect woman.”

Britney, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. “So, for the past eight months, while we’ve all been trying to set Haley up with every single man in greater Chicago, she’s been secretly dating the governor.”

“In her defense,” James said, “I asked her to keep it quiet. My position makes relationships complicated. The press can be intrusive, and I wanted to protect what we had—build something real without cameras and commentary.”

“Then why now?” Uncle Robert demanded. “Why show up here?”

James’s expression softened as he looked at me. “Because she called me crying last week. She was dreading this reunion—afraid everyone would spend the day reminding her that she’s thirty‑two and single, that she’s wasting her life teaching, that she should be more like Britney. No offense, Britney.”

“None taken,” Britney said faintly.

“And I realized I was being selfish. I was so busy protecting our privacy that I let the woman I love feel diminished by people who should be celebrating her. That ends today.”

Love. He’d said love. We’d said it to each other, of course, but never publicly. Never in a way that would end up online before dessert.

“Did you just—” I started. “Say you love me in front of my entire family, including my cousin who is definitely livestreaming?”

He glanced at Britney, who didn’t even try to hide her phone. “Yes. Governor James Rothwell loves high‑school drama teacher Haley McKinnon. Print it, post it, put it on billboards. I don’t care anymore.”

“The press team is going to be so mad at you,” I said weakly.

“They’ll adjust. They managed when I accidentally adopted three cats during a shelter visit. They can handle me being in love.” He paused. “For the record, the cats were Haley’s idea. She volunteers at the animal shelter, too. Because of course she does.”

“Those cats needed homes,” I protested. “And you love Mr. Whiskers.”

“Mr. Whiskers is plotting against me. I can see it in his eyes.”

“That’s just his face.”

“He put a very unwelcome mouse in my shoe. Haley, my dress loafer.”

“He was sharing. Cats bring gifts when they care about you—or when they’re establishing dominance.”

“That cat is definitely establishing dominance.”

My grandmother, watching with increasing delight, laughed. “Oh, you two are real, all right. Nobody could fake this level of comfortable back‑and‑forth.”

“We’re not bickering,” James and I said in unison—and then glared at each other.

“We’re debating,” I clarified.

“Discussing,” he corrected.

“Exchanging perspectives,” I countered.

“Good grief,” Uncle Ted muttered. “They’re perfect for each other. They’re both intense.”

“Speaking of perfect,” James said, reaching into his jacket pocket, “I actually had another reason for crashing your family reunion.”

My heart stopped—actually stopped—because James Rothwell, Governor of Illinois, was pulling out a small velvet box and dropping to one knee in front of my entire extended family, his protective detail, and at least three neighbors who’d wandered over to see what the commotion was about.

“No,” I breathed. “Jamie, no, not like this.”

“Exactly like this,” he said firmly. “Because this is your family, Haley. These people who drive you a little wild and sometimes make you feel small, but whom you love anyway—whom you protect and defend even when they hurt you. And I want them to witness this.”

He opened the box. The ring was simple, elegant, utterly perfect— a vintage art‑deco piece I’d admired months ago in an antique shop window.

“You remembered,” I whispered.

“I remember everything about you,” he said. “How you take your coffee—oat‑milk latte with an embarrassing amount of cinnamon. How you cry at the end of every performance, even the rough ones, because you’re so proud of your kids. How you leave me voice messages at two in the morning when you can’t sleep, usually about whatever book you’re reading. How you make me laugh when the job gets heavy. How you remind me why I got into public service in the first place—to help people, to make things better, to serve.”

He took a breath, and the polished politician was gone. This was just Jamie—vulnerable and real and mine.

“Haley McKinnon, you magnificent, maddening, magical woman. You quote Shakespeare at the most unexpected times and can’t cook anything but pasta and somehow convinced the governor of Illinois to adopt three extremely mischievous cats. Will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you? Will you be first lady of Illinois—and probably tell the entire state legislature they’re pronouncing Macbeth wrong?”

“They are pronouncing it wrong,” I protested through tears.

“I know, sweetheart. We’ll fix it. We’ll fix everything together—if you say yes.”

Part 2

I looked around at my family—at Britney, who dropped her phone in shock; at Uncle Robert, whose face turned an interesting shade of purple; at my mother, openly crying; at my grandmother, giving me the smallest nod of approval. Then I looked back at James—my Jamie—who’d upended his carefully managed political life to defend me at a backyard barbecue in Chicago.

“The president is going to be very upset,” I said.

“The president will get over it. Answer the question, Haley.”

“The press will be a lot.”

“I have an excellent press team. They live for tough days. Answer the question.”

“I can’t cook at all. First ladies probably need to cook.”

“We’ll hire someone—or live on pasta.” He smiled. “I like pasta.”

“Answer the question,” he added, softer now.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, obviously, yes. Who else would put up with your Scrabble confidence, your work habits, and your inability to remember which cat is which?”

“They’re all orange. How am I supposed to tell them apart?”

“Mr. Whiskers has white paws.”

“They all have white paws.”

“No—Duchess has white ears, and Sir Patrick Stewart has—” I stopped, laughing and crying at the same time. “You know what? We’ll make flashcards. Governor flashcards for cat identification.”

“See?” He slipped the ring onto my finger, stood, and pulled me into a kiss that would definitely make tomorrow’s headlines. “Already solving problems. We’re going to be an unstoppable team.”

When we finally broke apart, the backyard erupted—questions, congratulations, at least three relatives calling other relatives who hadn’t made it to the reunion. Davidson was already on his phone, undoubtedly alerting the communications office that their day had just gotten busier.

“So,” Britney said, approaching cautiously, “I maybe owe you an apology for the whole imaginary‑boyfriend thing—and the comments about your job and your apartment.”

“Britney,” I interrupted, “it’s fine.”

“Really, it’s not,” she said. “I’ve been unkind. We all have. You’re out there changing kids’ lives, and we act like it doesn’t matter because you’re not making six figures or married to some finance guy.”

“She could have married a finance guy,” James interjected. “I introduced her to several. She called them boring and made me sit through a three‑hour experimental theater piece about the dangers of runaway capitalism.”

“It was important theater.”

“It was three hours of interpretive dance and yelling.”

“It was art.”

“It was… ambitious.”

“Brilliant, meaningful, and ambitious.”

Emma laughed. “Oh my gosh, you two really are perfect for each other. You’re both completely ridiculous.”

“Speaking of ridiculous,” my mother found her voice, “a spring wedding? Fall? I’ll need to coordinate with your communications team.”

“Mom,” I warned.

“What? I’m just saying—if my daughter’s going to be first lady, we’re doing this properly. No eloping to Vegas like your father wanted when we got married.”

“Vegas sounds nice,” James mused. “Quick, efficient, no fuss.”

“You elope to Vegas and I’ll disown you both,” my grandmother announced. “I want a proper wedding—with the fancy people and the photographers and the whole circus. I’m ninety‑three. I’ve earned a show.”

“A show it is,” James agreed immediately. “Whatever you want, Mrs. McKinnon.”

“Smart man.” She patted his cheek. “You’ll do fine. Just remember our Haley’s special. Not because she’s marrying a governor, but because she’s Haley. You forget that—and I don’t care how many agents you have—I’ll find you.”

“Noted and understood, ma’am.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. James charmed every relative, even Uncle Robert, who eventually admitted that maybe a governor wasn’t the worst thing I could bring home. Jamie flipped burgers with my dad, discussed contemporary theater with my artsy cousin Miguel, and somehow ended up in an intense talk about education reform with my retired teacher aunts. Through it all, he kept finding me—a hand on my back, a shared glance—little moments that reminded me this was real. We were real. In Illinois, in our messy Chicago‑area backyard, under a sky that smelled like summer.

As the sun set and relatives began to leave—each extracting promises about invitations and tasteful details—James and I finally found ourselves alone for the first time all day.

“So,” I said, leaning into him. “That went well.”

He laughed, kissing my temple. “Your Uncle Robert asked if I could help with some parking tickets.”

“Of course he did.”

“And your Aunt Patricia wants to know if I can get her grandson an internship.”

“Naturally.”

“And your cousin Miguel invited us to his experimental‑theater collective’s newest piece. It’s four hours long and performed entirely in the dark.”

“We’re going.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I’m bringing a flask.”

“I love you,” I said. The words were easier now that we’d said them in front of witnesses—easier even if he had ambushed me with a proposal at a family barbecue.

“I love you, too. And I’d do it again—bigger. Maybe at the next state dinner.”

“Really? Give the press something to—” I kissed him to shut him up. It was a tactic that had worked for eight months, and I figured it would work for the next fifty years.

When Davidson appeared to remind us the governor had a security briefing in two hours and perhaps we should head back to Springfield, James groaned.

“This is my life now,” I said. “Briefings and formal dinners and people caring about what I wear.”

“You can handle it,” he said confidently. “You handle teenagers. Politicians are basically the same thing—but with worse impulse control.”

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for today. For showing up, for standing up for me, for proposing in front of my entire, lovable‑chaotic family.”

“Haley?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Part 3

As I watched him navigate goodbyes—promising my grandmother prime seats at the inauguration, assuring my mother she’d have input on wedding planning, exchanging numbers with Miguel for those theater tickets—I realized he meant it. James Rothwell, the man who could have anyone, wanted me. Drama teacher, Shakespeare quoter, terrible cook—me.

“Hey,” Britney said, appearing at my elbow. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. Really happy. And not just because you’re marrying the governor.”

“Thanks, Brit.”

“Although—” She grinned. “Being cousins with the first lady of Illinois probably won’t hurt my social‑media presence.”

“There’s the Britney I know.”

She laughed. “Someone’s got to be consistent in this family. By the way, Miguel’s already written a one‑man show about today. He’s calling it The Governor Wore Gucci: A Family‑Reunion Romance.”

“Of course he has.”

“He wants James to play himself.”

“Of course he does.”

By the time James finally extracted himself from my relatives and we headed toward the waiting SUV, I took one last look at the McKinnon family reunion—the site of a thousand small humiliations over the years—now transformed into the place where Governor James Rothwell proposed to me in front of God, family, and Britney’s followers.

“No regrets?” James asked, reading my expression as the skyline of Chicago edged pink in the distance.

“No regrets,” I confirmed.

“Although what?”

“Mr. Whiskers really is plotting against you. You should probably increase security.”

“Noted,” Davidson said from the front seat. “I’ll add ‘hostile feline’ to the assessment.”

James laughed, pulling me close as we drove away from my childhood neighborhood toward our shared future.

“First Lady Haley McKinnon,” he said. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“It does,” I agreed. “But I’m keeping my job. Those kids need me.”

“Of course you are. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

The city blurred past the windows—Lake Michigan throwing back the last light, the El humming like a chorus line, the whole American Midwest breathing in time with us. Let tomorrow’s headlines come. Let people speculate. I had my kids, my art, my very dramatic cats, and a fiancé who loved me enough to face down my entire family tree.

Life was good. Complicated, a little wild, but good. Although I really did need to make those cat‑ID flashcards.

Part 4

Morning came with a flood of notifications. My principal texted: So proud of you—but next time, please warn me before a governor becomes a regular at the auditorium. The theater kids made a group chat called First Lady Coach and sent twenty‑three GIFs of confetti. My mom had already drafted a guest list; Grandma sent a winking emoji and the words, Remember who you are.

James was on a call with the communications team, voice low and steady. He mouthed, You okay? I nodded.

After the call, he slipped his phone away. “Breakfast at Lou Mitchell’s? Or are we officially a ‘smoothie’ couple now?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “We’re pancakes and too much syrup. This is Chicago.”

He smiled. “This is Chicago.” He kissed my forehead. “And you’re mine.”

“Careful,” I warned. “Mr. Whiskers is very territorial.”

“We’ll negotiate,” he said. “Maybe with catnip.”

“Bribery. Classic politics.”

“Classic love,” he said, and held the door.

Outside, the day felt new. The air off the lake was bright and cool, the kind of air that makes you think about second chances, clean slates, and big American stories that start in backyards and end on bigger stages. We walked hand‑in‑hand down a city street that had watched us long before it knew our names.

Somewhere, headlines were being written. Somewhere else, teenagers were learning their lines for a spring show, and a governor was editing a speech about the arts. And somewhere in our living room, a certain orange cat was probably arranging a strategic display of affection—and dominance—on James’s favorite chair.

Let them write what they want. We’d write the rest. Together.

-End-